Moonlit Revelations
by Juliet'sEmoPhase
Summary: When Harry returns for his Eighth Year at Hogwarts, he quickly suspects Draco Malfoy is up to something again. Post Hogwarts, non-epilogue compliant. No smut.


Author's Note 28-09-15: This is a birthday present for my wonderful wifeling Ali aka alpha-exodus. Inspired partly by the incredible mashup "The Moonlight Hotel" by Robin Skouteris.

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Moonlit Revelations

It hadn't taken long for the obsession to creep in again.

Harry wasn't even sure why he'd agreed to come back to school to redo his seventh year – or 'eighth year' as people were calling it. Hermione had signed up no question, and Ron had been happy to go anywhere with her in the blossoming stage of their new romance. Harry guessed he himself had just been craving some normality again, and after helping rebuild the damage inflicted on the building during the battle, he'd felt nostalgic and eager to return to the place he'd thought of as home after a year away.

But now here they were a month in, and Ron had remembered how much he hated homework, and Harry just felt… _lost._ It was extremely hard to place importance on twelve inches on the properties of wolf's bane with regard to temperament potions, when he had been fighting for his life and living on the run for several whole months. He had a position waiting for him at Auror training, he didn't need this, but he had committed and he felt like he would be letting so many people down if he quit now.

His teachers had a lot of expectations; apparently defeating Voldemort meant he was now automatically supposed to get Os on everything, which Harry could understand in Defence, but really, his Potions experience had helped him diddly squat in the last year.

But then there were the students. If Harry thought the hero worship had been bad before when he was just The Boy Who Lived, now that he was The Chosen One, The Saviour Of The Wizarding World, he could barely move for the adulation he got in the corridors. He felt he couldn't shoo people away though; more often than not they were survivors of the battle and the war wanting to thank him, to talk to him about their experiences. He guessed the attention would probably die down eventually, people would start moving on soon enough, but during the first month or so back it seemed like he was drowning.

He felt so powerless. He couldn't help but feel responsible for everyone he talked to – like if he had just bested Voldemort earlier he could have saved so many people so much grief. He felt he owed them his attention at least, but it was devouring him and stripping him of what wits he had left. He didn't know how many times he could split himself into little bits so he could share himself with everyone who needed it.

He became more and more reliant on his invisibility cloak, waiting until most of the students moved between classes before darting unseen through the relatively deserted corridors. He shied away from large groups, trying to surround himself with his old friends whom he trusted not to bring up difficult subjects or at least attempt to talk about normal, everyday stuff like homework and gossip.

He was still on the outside though, looking in. No one could really understand what he'd been through, even though they thought they did. No one knew what it had been like to talk to the ghosts of his parents, Remus and Sirius as he made his mind up to go to Voldemort and die. No one knew what it was like to actually face death and return, or what it took to at least _try_ to give Tom one more chance at redemption before finally taking his life.

Harry figured it was probably this detached attitude he'd developed that meant he was more inclined to step back and watch people now, rather than get involved. Especially if he was under the protection of his cloak, where people would just be themselves and not be affected by his presence. And maybe that's why it wasn't so hard to spot the unusual behaviour when it began again in a certain blond haired Slytherin.

"I'm telling you, he's up to something shifty."

Hermione rolled her eyes and made a growling noise at the back of her throat. "Really Harry," she cried in exasperation. "Not this again."

Harry refrained from pointing out that the last time he'd thought Draco Malfoy was up to something, he actually _was._ But he knew that she and Ron had had enough drama and adventure to last a lifetime, and the thought of actively going looking for trouble was mind-boggling to them. So he kept his suspicions to himself after that.

But the thing was, Malfoy was definitely up to something at least a little bit sneaky, and anyone paying him the slightest bit of attention would have been able to spot that. He was always nipping off by himself, and he was extremely quiet in classes. Not particularly dastardly actions in themselves, but because it was Malfoy Harry was much quicker to jump to conclusions.

It had crossed Harry's mind that it must have been hard for him to come back here after the part he'd played in the war. Harry had volunteered to speak on his behalf at his and his mother's trail, honestly believing he'd had no choice but to do what he did whilst he was under the Dark Lord's thumb. It wasn't his fault his father had dragged him into the wrong side of a war, any more than Harry had been dragged in himself.

In truth, it was just one moment each that had made Harry write to the Ministry and ask to be allowed to testify on Draco and Narcissa's behalf. Two lies that had saved Harry's life each time: "I can't be sure?" and "He is dead!"

Maybe for those lies he should have been more forgiving or understanding. After all, for all the appreciation Harry was getting, Malfoy must have been getting almost as much cruelty and anger from those who had lost loved ones at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Harry himself couldn't help but grimace every time he looked Malfoy's way, thinking of the Dark Mark lurking beneath his left sleeve, thinking of Fred and Remus and Tonks and Dobby and everybody else he had lost.

Harry argued it was his grief that lead him to falling back into old patterns; it seemed almost natural to start carrying around the Marauders Map again, especially when he was already having to rely so much on his invisibility cloak.

Actually though, it didn't take all that much to work out that Draco was always going back to the same place, the same place he'd spent most of Sixth Yeah as well: The Room of Requirement. After just a week or so of surveillance, Harry got into the habit of dashing up to the corridor where the room was hidden whenever Malfoy made a move to leave, camping out under the cloak to wait for him to come and walk three times back and forth to create the particular space he needed.

He was sick with worry thinking about what he could be up to in there, and debated informing McGonagall on more than one occasion. But he didn't want to start throw around accusations without any real proof, so he made up his mind to try and get inside to catch Malfoy in the act first, a feat he finally achieved on his third day loitering outside the room with no short amount of skill.

When Malfoy had yanked the door open to head inside, he'd released his grip and let the door fall shut behind him. But Harry had cast a quick _Deprimo_ charm so that a gust of wind seemingly pulled the door back a little further, and Harry used that as his chance to slip inside as Malfoy turned and frowned at it. Harry held his breath, but Malfoy just shrugged and continued on into the room, which Harry now turned to take in.

He'd expected it to be the Room of Hidden Things, but then he'd realised with a jolt that that had been destroyed by the fiendfyre. Did that mean it and all its contents were gone for good? Harry didn't get time to ponder much though, as he was distracted by the sight that actually met him, and he stopped in surprise.

It was a large but simple room, with wooden floorboards and panelling on the walls. There were no paintings or curtains or any other kind of ornamentation, and no furniture save from a long, velvet covered stool and a small table next to it with stacks of parchment on it. And in front of that was a mammoth, gleaming black, grand piano.

Harry blinked. Of everything he had envisaged over the past few days, this had not been one of the scenarios, not even close. He'd imagined Malfoy working on some new plot to avenge his father or destroy the school once and for all. He'd pictured him coming in here to scream or cry in private, or even hurt himself. For half an hour he'd even thought about him doing something infinitely more private, but once he'd realised what he was actually visualising he'd snapped himself out of that particular image with horror, and had had to go mentally rinse his mind out.

This though? He wasn't even sure what this was?

Malfoy though seemed perfectly at ease as he walked over to the piano and graced his hand along the shining edge of the instrument, before sitting down and cracking his knuckles. He pressed down on a few experimental chords, before running his fingers up and down the keys in tandem, playing one scale and then another.

Harry wasn't sure what to do with himself. He couldn't very well open the door again without Malfoy noticing, so he just moved to the edge of the room and sat down with his legs crossed, careful not to let the cloak slip and expose himself as he leaned back against the wall. He might as well get comfy if he was stuck here.

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved. What on Earth was Malfoy doing in here playing the piano? He wasn't sure what to make of it, and he felt frustrated as the scales continued, starting on different notes each time. Harry didn't know anything at all about music aside from what he picked up from his friends' tastes – Dean had a pretty good collection of Muggle Rock music that he played on vinyl records sometimes, and Molly Weasley like to inflict Celestina Warbeck on them at Christmas, but other than that Harry couldn't say music was a big part of his life.

Malfoy paused in his mechanical succession of notes and rolled his shoulders, before leaning over to flick through the parchment that was stacked up to his left. Harry realised it was sheet music, and felt relieved Malfoy might be about to play something more interesting. After being so concerned something insidious was going on, his new worry was how long he was going to have to stay here and just how bored he was going to get.

But that was before Malfoy started playing.

Harry wasn't sure when he sat forwards, or the exact moment his jaw eased open so it was hanging in awe. But it didn't take long to work out that Malfoy was a _beautiful_ player, with each piece he selected more enjoyable than the last. Harry had no idea how long they spent in the secret room, only that he was numb by the time Malfoy finally called it a day after finishing by playing Harry's favourite piece yet. He found himself blinking as Malfoy smiled and stretched, his face looking somehow lighter than when he had come into the room. He rubbed the top of the instrument fondly and sighed with a nod. He looked…happy? Harry wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

So that was that then, he was just coming in here to play and let off steam, or re-centre or something? Yeah, Harry supposed he could understand that. If he was honest with himself as he watched Malfoy leave and shut the door behind him, he himself was probably the most relaxed he'd been since he'd come back to school. His felt lose despite the ache in his legs and back.

He gave it a few minutes before leaving the room himself, and walked back to Gryffindor Tower thoughtfully. He had nothing to worry about then, he could just carry on with whatever he had been doing before he'd decided Malfoy had been up to no good again. But he realised with a sinking sensation that nothing really came to mind when he tried to remember what he'd been doing before, certainly nothing that made him feel excited or happy. He chewed his lip, what did that mean then?

It meant, inevitably, that he found himself back outside the Room of Requirement the next day as soon as Malfoy's dot started making its way in that direction, and he pulled the same trick again with the wind and the door, and this time Malfoy didn't even pause to look back and check.

Harry had prepared a cushioning charm for today's session, so he settled down in the same spot as yesterday and rested his head against the wall, feeling the tension from the morning ebb away even with the simple scales that Malfoy did to warm his fingers up. He was able to let his mind wander pleasantly as his unwitting companion worked through a lot of the songs he had played the day before, but with several new ones peppered in too; he had an impressive repertoire. He began on a new piece that he picked slowly over for about half an hour by Harry's estimate, and even though he knew nothing about how to play the piano he was still impressed at how quickly Malfoy was able to get together the new themes.

He finished on the same piece as yesterday, and it was still Harry's favourite of them all. After Malfoy left the room he sat for quite a while afterwards humming what he could remember of the sorrowful but strong melody.

And so the week went on, and Harry's obsession did nothing to dissipate, it just changed into a different kind of beast. Malfoy's private recitals became the highlight of his day, but it wasn't until the fourth or fifth visit Harry realised that under his soothing influence he was becoming able to deal with the rest of his daily routine as well. When people came to talk to him or ask for his help or advice he found he had more of himself to give again, and was happier being around people than he had been in over a year.

It was like the music was refilling his soul, and Harry found his feelings towards Malfoy softening as a result of his improved moods. He quickly came to respect the other boy's skills, moving his position on the floor so he had a better view of the way Draco's fingers worked the keys. At the start of each session, there would always be a visible line of tension in Malfoy's jaw and shoulders, but by the time he got into the second or third piece Harry could actually see it melting away.

His face was still sharp and angular when he played, but it lost the hardness that had come to define it, and Harry realised he was warming to it, that he was looking for it when he was sat in the hall in mean times, or walking down a crowded corridor. He was searching for that jolt of contentment he got from watching and listening to him when he created his beautiful music.

But nothing compared to the moment when that last piece would begin, and Harry would be torn between a thrill of excitement as the familiar melody resonate in his ears, and the sadness that came from knowing that in a few minutes, they would be done once again for another day.

It was a Saturday when Harry finally gave in to the wave of sadness that hit him, and felt his eyes get wet as he tried to blink back his tears. Their session today had been unhurried and the longest yet, and yet he was selfish enough that he still didn't want it to end. He had become addicted to Draco Malfoy and his bloody grand piano, and although he knew he was coping with the rest of his life just a little better because of it, it was still a secret that only he knew and he was well aware of how wrong it was. He sat and let the notes wash over him, knowing there was something broken in him, and the only thing he had found that came close to soothing the ache was the music of someone he had always thought he'd hated.

He was a mess.

The last few bars rang out, and Harry was careful to take a slow, silent breath inwards to calm his shaking. He'd really managed to lose it this time, and would probably need a walk around the frosty lake to recompose himself now.

Malfoy didn't stand up and stretch like he normally did. Instead he let his hands drop gently into his lap, and he gave out a tired sigh. "Are you ever going to come out and say hello?" he asked.

Harry froze, horror welling up inside him. But Malfoy turned and smiled fondly, softening his face even more in a way that made Harry's insides twist in a way they never had before. He was sort of looking in the vague direction of where Harry was sitting.

"I know you're there Harry, you don't have to hide, I'm not angry I promise."

Harry's eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline, he was so stunned he had absolutely no idea of how to react. But Malfoy just shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck and licked his lips, eyes looking around the empty air hopefully in front of him. He seemed almost vulnerable, not like he'd caught someone spying on him at all. So Harry went against his better judgement, attempted to scrub some of the tears off of his face, then pulled off the invisibility cloak so it pooled beside him on the floor. "How did you know?" he asked a little pathetically.

But Malfoy gave him another sympathetic smile. "The door Harry," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It never did that before, the way it swings back on me when I come inside, and, well-" He grinned. "You're not exactly as quiet as you think you are."

Harry rubbed his face some more and sniffed, trying to shake off his upset. "And you guessed it was me?"

Malfoy nodded and swung a long leg over his stool. "Not many idiots around here with an invisibility cloak," he said. "Especially not ones that like to follow me around."

Harry managed to laugh, which he thought was quite impressive all things considered. But then he fixed Malfoy with a frown and huffed. "Why aren't you mad?" he asked. "And why are you calling me Harry?"

Draco shrugged again. "It's your name isn't it? And, well, I guess it was just nice to know someone wanted to listen to me. I mean, why else would you come back every day?"

Harry studied his hands in his lap and felt rather stupid. "I do like it," he said. "It is pretty weird though, listening in secret. I'm sorry Malfoy."

"Don't be," said Malfoy. "And you can call me Draco if you want. I don't want to be enemies anymore."

Harry swallowed and looked up at him. "Me either," he said with surprising ease. "You know coming here has been the only thing that's made returning back to school worth it? I mean, I'm feeling alright about the other stuff now. But your playing, I don't know, it just…it…helped."

He couldn't believe what he was admitting to Malfoy – Draco – but the words were just sort of pouring out. Draco for his part though simply nodded in understanding. "It does help," he said after a stretch of silence. "It calms me down."

Harry licked his lips. "What's that last one you always play?" he asked, burning to know.

Draco looked pleased at being asked, and Harry didn't question how happy that made him too. "Piano Sonata Number 14 in C Sharp Minor," Draco replied automatically. "More popularly known as the _Moonlight Sonata._ It's by a Muggle composer called Beethoven."

"A Muggle?" Harry repeated in surprise.

Draco picked at his fingernails and swallowed. "I know," he said quietly. "But it's my favourite."

Harry felt the need to be closer, to assure him, so without over-thinking it, he stood and perched on the end of the stool. "That's okay," he insisted, not wanting to make a fuss over this statement even though it was a huge step forward for Draco as far as he was concerned. "It's my favourite too."

"Then why were you crying?" Draco teased, and Harry shoved his knee gently.

"Was not," he shot back.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh?"

Harry grumbled but he eventually graced Draco with a sheepish smile. "Because that's always your last one, and, I don't know, I just feel so content here, and it's so beautiful but sad. I guess maybe I wanted to put the real world off for a little while longer."

Draco studied him, but strangely Harry didn't feel uncomfortable. Instead he touched his fingers very lightly to Harry's thigh, sending shivers down his spine. "It doesn't have to end yet," he said. "Do you want me to show you some more of what I do?"

Harry licked his lips. Why did he feel so drawn to Draco, it was intoxicating. He always had been, but now he was talented and nice and so bloody beautiful, it was all manner of confusing. "Could you play the moonlight one again?" he asked tentatively. With even more reserve, he reached out and just brushed his fingertips against Draco's knuckles. "So I can watch properly?"

Draco nodded silently, and they both swung their legs around so they were facing the piano fully. "It's not the hardest piece in the world," Draco said softly. "But getting the feel of it right takes work. It's…well it's from the heart, like you have to pour it through your veins down into the keys, and not lose anything along the way."

He pressed down and Harry felt a shiver down his spine. It was even better now he was right next to Draco, feeling his body move against his, seeing the shapes his hands were making to produce such a perfect sound. He ran through the whole piece again, but for whatever reason he played around with the usual structure of it and looped the whole thing back again for a second go.

Harry felt content to his bones, and hardly even noticed when his head dropped tiredly onto Draco's shoulder, eyes fixated on the fingers walking over the white and black keys. "You're so good," he mumbled.

"Thank you," Draco said back, and finally wound the song down after a third variant through. He dropped his head so it was resting lightly against Harry's, and he gave a small sigh. It was so odd – if Harry had had the energy to take a step back and look at it. But he didn't. Because in that moment he just felt so right and at ease, so much so that instead of pulling away, he reached his hand over and took Draco's to give it a squeeze. "Thank you for sharing this with me," he said honestly.

"Thank you for wanting to share it with me," Draco replied, running his fingers over Harry's, so strong and gifted, and Harry shivered with the privilege of their touch. "Next time you don't have to wear the cloak okay. You can just come join me, like this."

"I can keep coming along?" Harry checked, not oblivious to the little thrill of happiness that gave him in his chest.

He felt Draco nod against him. "If you want to."

Harry nodded back. "Thank you."

Draco laughed. "I can't believe we're being so civil to each other," he said. "Not even a hint of a hex."

Harry drew back and looked into his eyes. He hadn't realised how grey they were before. "I'm done with hexes," he said. "I'm sorry it was so bad before between us."

Draco gave him a reproachful look. "I'm the one that caused all the trouble," he said, putting it mildly. _"I'm_ sorry. I'm glad – I'm glad this has happened. I want it to happen more."

The thought of he and Draco sharing this secret together, their little private concerts, made something hot curl and fizz inside Harry. "Me too," he agreed.

He wasn't sure who leaned in first, how they were suddenly so close, but Harry wasn't afraid when their fingers squeezed tighter against one another, and he could feel Draco's breath glance softly against his lips.

And that was how he and Draco shared their first kiss, sat at Draco's piano in the space they had created together, and would continue to grow together in. It was under the shadow of Beethoven's moon that their love began, and Harry would be forever grateful for it.

End


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